


Sun speckled glass

by Baryshnikov



Series: Spoiled Fruit [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Possessive Harry Potter, Possessive Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, mild exhibitionism, mild jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Who said garden parties had to be boring.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Spoiled Fruit [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616770
Comments: 4
Kudos: 150





	Sun speckled glass

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my current obsession with orangeries and linen suits.

The orangery was warm, hot even, and ever so close. With just the far-left door open, there was only the slightest perceptible breeze skimming through the room, but never quite touching Harry’s skin. It didn’t help that he was standing right up against the glass, in full view of the afternoon sun’s glares—in Harry’s defence, standing here offered the best views of the Malfoy gardens, albeit clouded and hazy through the textured glass. 

But, perhaps it was for the best that he and Tom were partially obscured, after all, they weren’t supposed to be in here; it was an unspoken rule that at formal garden parties such as this, one was not supposed to wander out of the potential view of the host without first informing them. However, Tom said he’d had enough of rich people yapping on about their perceived mistreatment, and, frankly, Harry was inclined to agree with him.

There were only so many times that he could listen to someone whose name stretched back into the ethers of time, whine about the apparent injustices that they had had to endure during their rich, insular lives, almost hermetically sealed off from the rest of society. In all honesty, if it had been up to him alone, Harry wouldn’t have chosen to be here at all, but Tom had invited him as his mandatory plus-one and thus he was obligated to not only attend but also be civil. 

Through the glass, he could see Malfoy wandering between clusters of chatting women, sweltering even in their silk dresses, and groups of men in their cool linen suits that blended into each other and turned them into a single creature with endless arms and endless legs and an endless capacity to talk of business, and ventures, and prospects. It was their constant, meaningless, babbling that made Harry see why Tom could only bear them for short quantities of time. 

Thinking of Tom, Harry turned away from the glass and back towards the large interior cavity of the orangery where Tom was sitting only a few feet away, looking like the most irresistible of provocateurs as he sipped at his tea—he wasn’t a fan of Malfoy’s champagne—though how he could possibly want to drink something so hot on a day like this was beyond Harry’s comprehension.

Not moving away from the wide-paned windows that surrounded them, Harry let his gaze track over Tom's silhouette; tracing around the curve of his neck, and down the sleeve of his shirt, rolled up to the elbow, before straying right to the tips of his fingers. There was such an elegance to him now as he leaned back in one of the light wicker chairs, one hand sprawling over the arm as the other held his tea, and his spine moulded to the back of the chair like it was made for him. He suited places like this, expensive places with high, hollowed, ceilings and great expanses of glass through which spilled the white-gold heat of the sun, licking at Harry's skin. 

It licked at Tom too, bright and hot, painting a thick line of light down his face and over that outrageous suit of his. Not that it made Tom look _bad_ because that was a physical impossibility, rather it made him look so unbearably _good_ and that was almost worse. He’d removed his jacket the moment they came in here, citing the heat, and now he was just in that pale blue shirt that highlighted the blue veins crawling up his throat, and the taupe trousers the colour of a pebble beach. 

The cool confidence with which Tom wore that ensemble was enough to make Harry pull at the hem of his shirt—the suit had been as mandatory as the invitation—and shift his shoulders under the weight of the jacket. This heat, wrapping around him like a snake was too much even for the light cotton of the suit and Harry could feel the neckline begin to chafe against his skin, drawing a thick, red, line that he just had to reach up to with his spare hand and trace his fingers along. 

"Enjoying the view?" Tom said, tilting his head to the side just slightly as his mouth turned up at the corners, forming itself into one of those iridescent smiles that made people's hearts burn hot between their ribs. Harry wasn't immune to that reaction and, even now, his pulse thrummed and fizzed at his throat like the yapping of one of those small scrappy dogs, whenever Tom offered one of those smiles to him. But however much his heart betrayed him, Harry still liked to think that he kept his wits about him and that he certainly wasn't about to let himself be swallowed up in the trifling name of love. 

So, instead of melting to his knees like so many others did in Tom's presence, Harry just took a sip of his too-warm champagne and leaned back into the glass; his empty palm burning from the heat of it, though he kept it flat against the pane for show.   
"Some of it takes my fancy," he said, letting his eyes slide from their place at Tom's shoulder, down the length of his shirt, catching on every button, to where his brown leather belt wound heavy around his waist. Harry’s hands itched to touch it, to run the tips of his fingers over the leather and use it to pull Tom right up against him; as it was, Harry contented himself with just watching as he curled his fingers up to his palm and let the sun paint his fist gold. 

"Oh," Tom said, shifting to splay his leg out a little more—enough to make Harry's faze linger on his inner thigh, “I bet it does.”   
He sighed, his tongue pushing out and licking over his lips in a demure fashion that didn't suit the predacious intentions of his eyes. For Tom was not the soft, innocent, creature he pretended to be and every so often, he'd let that slip; a sneer that should have been a smile, a cruel word instead of a kind one, or maybe the mere grip of his fingers on your arm and the set of his mouth into something as gorgeous as it was horrid. 

Harry swallowed and leaned back further so that his shoulders were pressed against the glass as well. Despite the layers of material—both his jacket and his shirt and even his skin—Harry still felt the heat of the sun sliding between the vertebrae of his spine and warming him from the inside out. A little way away, he could hear the clipped enunciations and flimsy tones of rich people laughing in that superficial manner; not that it mattered. 

None of it mattered right now.

The only thing that had any substance in the world at this precise second was the way Tom was looking at him with those dark eyes that were shining like black treacle in the sun, and the curve of his mouth that was somehow indecent. Like that, he looked like a snake all coiled up and ready to strike, and, to follow the analogy, that must make Harry the prey he was stalking. 

The thought made him grip harder at the warm stem of his glass and he took another sip of his champagne; Tom mirrored the action with his tea and Harry found himself watching Tom’s throat. His eyes following the strong, slender, line that ran from his collarbone to his jaw and shifted as he swallowed. Something that simple shouldn’t have been so unbearably hypnotic to watch, but Harry couldn’t help the way his gaze lingered for far longer than was appropriate as Tom tipped the teacup up a little higher and finished the rest of his tea. 

Harry was still staring when, and with a distinct finality, Tom put down his teacup on the low glass table beside him and stood up. With the same surety—that marked awareness that he was an attractive and so had access to all the privileges afforded to such a desirable man—Tom rolled back his shoulders so that the slit at the top of his shirt, where his buttons were undone, stretched wide and revealed a cool triangle of skin. Harry couldn’t help but lick his lips; his eyes hovering for a touch too long at the scrap of skin that Tom had deigned to show, though the moment was soured by the simple fact that Harry knew he wasn’t the only one who’d had his eyes wandering where they shouldn’t have been. 

Despite what his friends might say, Harry wasn’t entirely unobservant, he knew that other people looked at Tom; he also knew when people touched at Tom’s arm, or laid a firm hand on his shoulder that it wasn’t purely out of politeness, but for reasons he’d rather not examine, seeing them do it always made his heart burn between his lungs. Just having to watch these rich, entitled people try to coax Tom towards them with nothing more than the swell of their own wealth—that great unspoken entity rippling at the edge of the conversation like the undulating waves of the ocean—was sickening. And even when Harry knew that _he_ didn’t have to _buy_ Tom’s attention—he got it for free—he still found their simpering grating on his heart. 

The selfish part of him wanted to keep Tom for himself. He wanted to have him, in this heat-curled moment for his consumption and his consumption alone, even if the mere thought of that made his heart slam like a runaway train against his ribs, and made his palms itch, and made his mouth hot and his tongue prickle with a feeling that could only be love.

Not that he needed to be worried because Tom was certainly acting like Harry was the only thing that mattered, for he was wandering over; slow and steady, always feigning disinterest even as he smiled with all the genuineness of a man in love. 

And wasn’t that just a gorgeous sight?

The sun sliding over the contours of Tom’s face, highlighting every splinter-sharp edge and deepening every hollow into something striking. Perhaps the worst (or best) thing was that, despite the heat, Tom still managed to look devastatingly sophisticated—so incredibly at ease with himself and how he looked even when there was a horrid humidity in the air and a clamminess clinging to his skin. And though it pained him to admit it, Harry could have stared at Tom’s face forever, but he forced himself to turn back to the window because Tom really didn’t need any more of an ego boost. 

He already knew he was most the desirable thing here. 

But he tried to put the outrageous angles of Tom’s face to the back of his mind, and instead focus on the outside world, beyond the glass, where Harry could see the smoky shapes of the roses framing the orangery windows and he could hear the sounds of laughter that trickled over from the party. Though the more irresistible sound was the press of footsteps against the stone floor, the deliberate step of someone casually approaching—each one made Harry’s stomach clench and his grip on the champagne glass tighten that little bit more. 

“You like to act calm, don’t you, Harry?” Tom said, all soft and low and utterly charming, as he came to a stop just a pace or two away from Harry. “But I can tell that you’re already thinking about me,” he continued, the heat emanating from him enough to make Harry swallow hard and straighten out the bones in his spine to stand at his full height and feign his own version of disinterest—though his heart continued to buzz like a trapped insect in his chest. 

If Tom noticed the tightness of his bones or the contraction of his muscles, he didn’t comment on it; instead, he merely leaned closer, draping himself over Harry’s back, and speaking so close to him that his tongue caught on the tip of Harry’s ear. “I bet,” he murmured, “that you’re already thinking about what you want me to do to you tonight.” 

"What if I was?" Harry said, his tongue trembling in his mouth as he fought to keep the apathy in his tone, because if Tom got even the slightest hint of how much Harry’s pulse was shuddering under his skin, and how his voice alone could make a dastardly prickle run down the long length of Harry’s spine, then he might never shut up.

But, despite his best efforts, Tom must have an inkling of his thoughts, for Harry could hear the smile in his tone—it was in the thick quality of his voice, not to mention the heaviness of his hand as he touched Harry’s shoulder. His fingers wrapping themselves around the bone and pressing hard through his jacket.  
"Well, if you were," Tom said, "I'd feel obliged to indulge you, post-haste." 

"What... now?" Harry said, half-turning his head before stiffening and forcing himself to keep looking straight ahead—at the party they were supposed to be attending, with the women moving like butterflies and the men hovering awkwardly at the sidelines. He watched Malfoy flittering around like one of his peacocks, whilst trying _ever_ so hard to ignore the insistent press of Tom’s body against his, and the slow, almost lazy, caress of his fingers as they skimmed over his shoulder and began to touch at his throat and pull at his tie. 

"Mmm," Tom just hummed in agreement, as he worked his fingers into the heart of the knot and began to pull the material out, "right now."

There was another quality to the words now, something deeper and richer than before, something that got Harry’s heart throbbing and his muscles aching from being held so tight—and for what end? Tom clearly wanted to indulge him, that much was obvious from the way he dragged the tie so slowly from around his neck and stuffed it into his pocket, and from the way he began to mouth idly at his neck—the very definition of persuasive. 

And Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t want to interrupt these rich people’s comfortable lives with something as scandalous as Tom’s mouth against his own, and preferably a whole lot more. So, in a final act of preparation, he drained the last of his champagne and bent down to place the glass on the floor.

"Shouldn't—shouldn't we close the curtains, then?" he said, standing back up and glancing at the translucent curtains draped in the corner of the room.

"What?" Tom said, pressing into again, "and deprive them of the view, now that wouldn't be very fair, would it?" he murmured, his hands hooking under the lapels of Harry’s jacket and easing it off his shoulders. It should have been cooler without the weight, but having Tom pressed so close to his back that he could feel the pulsating of his heart like a shockwave through his spine, meant the difference was frankly negligent. 

"Especially not when I want them all to see you," Tom continued, now running the tips of his fingers over Harry’s shoulders and down his forearms, lingering just above the elbow for long enough that Harry began to squirm.   
"I want them to want you," he murmured, his tongue tracing the words over Harry’s ear, “and I want them to know that they can't have you, Harry, because you're all mine, aren't you?" 

Harry swallowed; he could let it all go and sink into the mire that was Tom’s persuasiveness, but where was the fun in that when he could be winding Tom up around his fingers—stringing him out and making him grip harder at his waist and kiss more possessively at his mouth?   
“What makes you so sure of that?" Harry said, both soft and bold, as he turned his head to allow his gaze to meet Tom’s, “for all you know, I could be bored of you; I could have found someone a little more... _capable_ of giving me what I want."

It was provocative and deliberate and should have got under Tom’s skin, but to Harry’s irritation, he didn’t rise to the bait. Rather, merely raised his hand from Harry’s shoulder and slid it up his neck to hold Harry’s jaw still; the pads of his fingers were hot, and his touch was firm enough that Harry just let him do it because having Tom in control made his lungs ache and his stomach curl in on itself in the very best way. 

“You do realise,” Tom said softly but with a smile infecting his tone, “that _everyone_ knows you’re completely besotted with me, Harry.” As he spoke, Tom glided his thumb over Harry’s skin and up to his mouth where it lingered like a smouldering match on his lips. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but, at that moment, Harry wanted more than anything else to just pull Tom closer to him by his collar and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. 

But that wasn’t the way to get what you wanted around Tom, rather you had to persuade him that it was what _he_ wanted. So, Harry just swallowed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other and grinding languidly back into Tom.   
"But you're smitten with me too, aren’t you?" Harry said—murmured trying to sound more confident than he was as he gazed up at him. 

Tom gazed down; his mouth close enough that Harry could have kissed him. "Now, who's saying that?" Tom said, one hand still pressing lightly into Harry’s throat while the other slid from his elbow to his waist. 

" _Everyone_ ," Harry breathed as he leaned back into Tom's chest and let his hands wander further down to his waist. "And, certainly, you know you can't keep your hands off me." 

"They know that too," Tom said, nodding his head towards the collection of spectators who were now surreptitiously watching them over their wine glasses and classy conversations—pale, aristocratic faces painted a lurid pink—their mouths open and rounded at the scandal.   
"And they can't keep their eyes off you, Harry—can you feel them?" Tom said, his hand now cupping his hip. 

Harry could only nod; his knees weakening as Tom’s palm pressed hot through his skin, and his fingers crawled along the leather of his belt and hooked under the buckle. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the guests looking at them, their eyes widening at the indignity just as their hearts beat faster, and he could imagine Malfoy marching in here and demanding that they stop it and Tom just ignoring him as he pushed Harry harder against the burning glass and took what he wanted that much slower. 

Harry exhaled, hard and shaky. He must look quite the sight; like a withering plant propped up by Tom’s hands at his waist and around his neck, blurred by the glass, but framed for their viewing by the roses. He just swallowed—drinking in the heat of the sun and the weight of Tom’s hand around his throat—and tipped his head back further, pressing his hair into the crook of Tom’s neck and just breathing him in as Tom’s fingers worked his belt buckle open and eased down the zipper. 

"If—if they're all already watching—" Harry paused to suck warm air between his teeth "—if they're watching," he repeated, "we might as well give them something to watch."

"I like that idea,” Tom said, still dipping his hand lower, “I like that idea a lot, Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's pretty awful, but the words just aren't flowing at the moment so, I'm afraid, it's all I've got.


End file.
